


A Will to Survive, A Voice of Reason

by diemarysues



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, F/F, FemBagginshield, Female Bilbo, Female Thorin, First Kiss, Flirting, Minor Violence, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Fembagginshield, rival assassins trying to get to a target first, ends in make outs.</p><p>It got away from me a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Will to Survive, A Voice of Reason

**Author's Note:**

  * For [resurrection-rite](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=resurrection-rite).



> Got this prompt on tumblr some months ago, and the urge to write it was rekindled by Assassin's Creed: Black Flag. So you may see some nods to the series.
> 
> Also: [Hobbit Big Bang going on. Do join!](http://hobbitstory.livejournal.com/)
> 
> Thanks to alkjira for betaing, plot help, and general tolerance of my whining.

Thorin – better known as Oakenshield – was one of the best in the business, and she knew it.

 

Killing people wasn’t easy or fun, but it was necessary, and it paid well. A little mercenary, but it was true enough. While she had been able to support her family with blacksmithing, their lives only became comfortable once she’d accepted and completed her first few contracts.

 

Her siblings knew what she did, of course. They were too close for secrets, much less a secret as big as this one. It would be a lie to say that they approved, but they were as realistic about it as she was. So long as she didn’t burden them with the details, they would support her.

 

(Though, Frerin lamented the fact that by becoming an assassin, she’d left him with the bulk of the smithing. This was solved by their sister taking over the forge work, while he took her sons for lessons… though Dís hated that she had to be the one who patched their sister up when she came home limping and bleeding.)

 

Today she was not in any way injured, but stormed into their shared home and unceremoniously threw her pack on the ground.

 

When Dís glared at her filthily, she winced – only just remembering that this was the time that her young nephews napped. Her frown remained, though, and Thorin sat opposite her sister and tried to rub away the headache throbbing behind her eyes.

 

A bowl of cracked walnuts was slid before her; Thorin sighed and dutifully began shelling them. The repetitive motions were calming, and by the time she’d freed half the nuts she was calm enough to mutter, “He was dead before I even entered his fortress.”

 

She felt rather than saw her sister still. “Dead, or killed?”

 

“Killed. Needle through his spine.”

 

“Needle,” Dís repeated flatly.

 

Thorin merely nodded. She’d never seen its kind before; long and thin, perfectly crafted, and apparently very capable of piercing flesh. There was only the barest touch of blood on the tablecloth, and Thorin only had a moment to stare before the alarm was raised and guards were on her tail.

 

Imagine. Someone else had killed the mark – and claimed the earnings – and she’d had to deal with the consequences.

 

“Do you know who it was?”

 

“Aye.” Thorin set aside the thin knife she’d been using. “They call her Sting.” There was only one person ‘in the business’ who used those needles – though apparently she was as fond of using poison to kill.

 

“Who’s Sting?”

 

“Frerin.” Dís sat back in her chair. “You are home early.”

 

“Not as early as our sibling.” Frerin dropped a kiss to Dís’ forehead, and then walked around the table to do the same to Thorin. “But come, my tales surely pale in comparison to that of this ‘Sting’, whoever it is.”

 

Thorin flicked a walnut shell to and fro, eyes tracking its skittering progress along the tabletop. “There aren’t many tales to tell,” she murmured, frowning. “All that is known is that she is so quiet and so skilled that none of her marks are aware of her presence, even after she’s killed them.”

 

“A bit difficult to know anything after you’re dead,” Frerin pointed out, snorting. He raised his eyebrows when both his sisters turned to him. “What? Am I wrong?”

 

“You are being too literal. As usual.” She retrieved the knife. “Did you hunt those, or were they bought?”

 

Frerin held up two lean rabbits. Each was nicked neatly through the eye, which meant that whoever had caught them had been quite skilled – or very lucky. “I hunted them. Or did my bow and quiver go unnoticed?”

 

“You left them at the door, Frerin.” Dís pushed her chair out, standing to wash her hands.

 

“Ours is not a large home. You could’ve seen me from here.”

 

Thorin rolled her eyes. “Will this be enough to feed all of us? I should have sent prior warning but –”

 

“You are not a soothsayer, Thorin; you could not have predicted your premature return. As it stands, however, I will need more blueberries. As many as you can collect.” Dís towelled her hands dry slowly and thoroughly, which meant she was thinking of something else. “If there are any left over, the lads would appreciate the treat with their porridge tomorrow.”

 

“And I will prepare these for the stew. ‘Tis a shame they’re so skinny.” Frerin weighed the two rabbits that hung from his hand; the cords holding them twisted together. “Ah well, at least the skins will fetch some coin.” He looked up at Thorin, who had emptied a basket of onions (two whole onions, if one was wondering). “Unless you’d like company.”

 

“No,” was the short reply. “I need to think.”

 

And to do that, she needed to be alone.

 

* * *

 

There had been little point reflecting (“Brooding,” said Frerin) on what had happened. Sting had just happened to be quicker than Thorin had, simple as that. The only thing she could do was move on to other targets; there were very many people to kill, and the chances of their paths meeting again were slim.

 

Soon enough Thorin forgot about her mysterious fellow assassin. Her contract on this day was to kill Azog. The Pale Orc, he was called, and his death would mean more than job satisfaction to Thorin – it would be a personal satisfaction. He had killed her grandfather Thrór, and Thorin was looking forward to burying _Deathless_ in his heart.

 

If he had a heart, that is.

 

She would find out soon. She’d learned that Azog had based his Orcs in some kind of fortress, or the ruins of one – and that was where she would kill him.

 

Thorin may not have been light on her feet – hard to be, when you were built as a Dwarf – but she was strong, and she _knew_ stone as most of her kin did. She waited until the cover of darkness, when her midnight blue cloak blended into the night, and crept up the wall of the main tower. There were more than enough cracks and crevices to be her hand- and footholds; the more structurally unsound parts of the wall were avoided easily.

 

Azog’s quarters were at the very top of the tower – information gleaned from an axe blade to a Goblin’s throat. Thorin reached the convenient window, sent a prayer to Mahal, and risked a peek.

 

A hand found its way into her hair and hauled her upwards, into the tower, and onto the floor.

 

Sheathed as her weapons were, there was no way to attack her assailant – and then a booted foot stomped down on her right hand, dashing her plans straightaway. Azog’s other boot went to her chest, holding her down and making the breath whoosh out of her lungs. He snatched off her face covering, and bared his jagged teeth.

 

“ _Thorin, daughter of Thráin, come to kill me in my sleep_.” He chuckled, bearing more of his weight down on her wrist. “ _Did no one tell you that an Orc is not so easily killed as a Dwarf_?”

 

Thorin, though she had no knowledge of the Black Speech, caught the general gist of his mocking tone and snarled wordlessly. She had no idea who had sold her out – and someone _had_ sold her out, make no mistake – but she vowed to make them pay. As soon as she escaped with life and limb intact.

 

Azog seemed more concerned with deriding her than actually harming her, so at least there was some respite there. All Thorin needed was for him to drop his guard for but a moment, and then she could kill him and behead him as he’d done to her grandfather. (And, no, the method of his death had not been specified in the contract. Beheading him would just bring a satisfying sense of circularity to Thorin.)

 

They were alone; there was no one else in the large room, not even the white Warg Azog now chose to ride into battle. That was Thorin’s first stroke of luck. The second was that he was fool enough not to pin her left hand.

 

She carefully moved her arm, trying to get it into position to trigger the mechanism that held her blade in place – without alerting Azog of her intentions. Too quickly and he’d notice, too slow and he’d kill her before she could escape. A delicate balance.

 

“You will pay for what you did, filth,” Thorin spat, a sentiment she wholeheartedly supported even if she was using it as distraction. “I will make you pay.”

 

Azog’s grin widened further, stretching the ugly gouges on his face. “You will _die_ ,” he gloated and – Thorin frowned. She’d never heard the Orc converse in Common before. It sounded _sick_ on his tongue, as if he was desecrating the language merely by speaking it. “There is no escape.”

 

That was looking more and more like the most likely outcome. With the majority of Azog’s weight on her chest, she could only draw in shallow breaths. Her head was already starting to spin.

 

“Your grandfather begged me to kill him, in the end.” He rested cool metal against her cheek; the claw he now wore in place of the arm she had taken. No doubt he’d soon use it to pierce her skull. “Your father would have followed, had he not run like a coward.”

 

“My father is –” Thorin broke off, gasping in a breath “– is no coward.”

 

“I bore Thrór’s head aloft, tasted his flesh, drank his blood – Thráin saw all and _ran_. A coward; just as the your line are –”

 

She acted quickly. Azog had fallen to the side, caught by surprise rather than the pain of being stabbed in his side. Thick, black blood spurted from between his fingers and he spat out curses, reverting to the Black Tongue. He got his feet back under him and reached for his mace.

 

Thorin didn’t strictly _have_ to slice off that hand, but it was darkly pleasing to watch Azog howl and clutch at his forearm, as he had done all those years ago. (Though perhaps ‘clutch’ was poor word choice, given that he no longer had fingers to do so.) She stood straight-backed against her enemy and savoured the moment –

 

Then brought her sword in an arc and decapitated him.

 

Satisfaction at this had to be put aside; Azog’s screams had been heard by other Orcs. If Thorin wanted to escape alive, she had to deal with them first.

 

There were five of them gathered by the entrance, disfigured and snarling, chattering and spitting in their own language as they held aloft poorly forged weapons. They did not advance, however, and Thorin was wary. Why didn’t they attack?

 

The answer came in the form of a tall Orc, as tall as Azog (had been), with one milky eye that gave away his identity. He was called Bolg, and he was Azog’s son – though no one sane wanted to know how that had come about –, obviously now the commander of this rabble of Orcs since the Defiler was dead.

 

She wondered if there was a price on his head as well… then decided that even without one, she’d gladly kill him.

 

Thorin’s lips curled into a smirk, and she beckoned the Orcs forward.

 

* * *

 

“Thorin!” Frerin immediately dropped his hammer, hurrying across the forge. “ _Mahal_ – what happened?”

 

She let herself drop her weapons to the floor. They clattered and clanged, the sound echoing in her already aching head. “Where’s Dís?” Her teeth were clenched together hard enough to make her jaw hurt, and she suspected that she was still bleeding.

 

“With the lads, teaching them arithmetic. She was always best at it.” Frerin had reached her side by now, and helped her limp into the forge, kicking the door shut with his heel. “Durin’s beard, Thorin, did you take on an army?”

 

She coughed. “Half of one.”

 

Her brother looked unimpressed. “Typical.”

 

With his help, she lowered herself onto a bench, hissing when her belt dug into her tender side. She attempted to unhook it with bloody and dirty fingers while Frerin went to fetch water. He bolted the door as he passed.

 

“You’re lucky, sister. If you’d arrived minutes before and you’d have scared off Master Alcarin.”

 

“Of nervous disposition –” Thorin broke off to curse her stiff fingers “– is he?”

 

Frerin rolled his eyes. “Anyone would be nervous around you, Thorin, even if you hadn’t stumbled in with blood all across your face.”

 

She’d make sure not to mention that that had been her own fault. Jumping the remaining distance from her perch on the tower wall had possibly been unwise; she’d not damaged her legs, but the jarring impact had forced the edge of her shield straight into her lip. No one would know the truth of it but her.

 

It was a physical relief when her belt fell to the floor, easing the pressure on her ribs. She pulled off her overtunic as well, movements clunky as she tried not to strain her injuries.

 

Her brother clucked at the bruises and cuts already visible, setting a bowl of water and cloth on the bench beside her. He reached for the hem of her undershirt to help her remove that as well, but Thorin stopped him.

 

“What’s wrong _namadel_?” His eyes searched her face for any pain. “What happened?”

 

“I killed him,” she whispered, fitting her hand to the back of Frerin’s neck. Her breathless laugh silenced any reply he had on his tongue. “Azog. I killed him.”

 

“Azog – _that_ was the contract you took? Thorin you – he could have killed you instead!”

 

“But he didn’t.” Thorin laughed again, and a tear slipped down her cheek between one blink and the next. “His filth is gone, after – after grandfather –”

 

“Hush now.” Frerin framed her face in his hands, before calling her an extremely rude name. Thorin barely had time to feel insulted before he pressed their foreheads together. “You’ve done well.”

 

In the warm darkness of the forge they two clutched each other close, Thorin’s breaths harsh with pain and unshed tears. All the injuries she’d endured, all the nightmares, all the sleepless nights – she could not regret them now that the murderer of their grandfather had been laid to ruin.

 

“Thank you,” Frerin whispered, and Thorin breathed.

 

* * *

 

Venturing into the towns of Men was not a favourite pastime of Thorin’s; Dwarves were treated with too much scorn and derision by too many of the ‘Big Folk’, although gold and jewels sweetened their dispositions exceptionally. Even so, needs must when it came to chasing her targets, and so Thorin swallowed her (considerable) pride.

 

The Man she was to kill was called Circyn, and he had the deplorable title of Slaver. According to those who would see him dead, the past few years he and a band of like-minded individuals chose to ambush travellers and strip them of all they were worth before selling them to the far South or even to Orcs. An entirely unsavoury business and one Thorin would be glad to put a stop to.

 

She’d spent the better part of the day tailing Circyn as he’d walked about Bree, spending coin gained from slave trafficking. It hadn’t been easy to blend in with the humans milling about, but Thorin had managed to find hiding places from which she could observe her mark.

 

There had been a near thing though, when she’d attracted unwanted attention; imagine being accused of potential horse thievery. Luckily the owner of the horse pasture recognised her, as she’d purchased ponies from him before.

 

Now she was in the eating hall of the Prancing Pony. The day was growing and dark, and she needed to make sure that the slaver would choose to put up at this inn before she could kill him. It would be far easier to do so when he was alone in a room than in such a crowded place.

 

So she sat. And she waited. And if her gaze found its way to one of the serving girls, well… that was her own business. (T’wasn’t like she was shirking her duties; she was peripherally aware of Circyn and his activities. Going by the sheer amount of ale he was imbibing, there was no where he’d be going anywhere fast.)

 

The lass was a pretty little thing; Hobbit by the looks of her, with curls of honey-brown hair tumbling down her back and laughing hazel eyes. She met every one of Thorin’s tiny smiles with interest, and balanced her tray against her hip so Thorin had no choice but to let her eyes be drawn to that shapely figure.

 

Really, Thorin mused, it was a shame that she already had ‘plans’ for the night. Else she’d have rented a room, with a lovely bed, and perhaps –

 

“Are you wishful of something else, Mistress Dwarf?”

 

Thorin supposed it was good that she’d been drawn out of her thoughts before she’d gotten carried away… though was it moot if her contemplation was cut short by the very person she’d been thinking of? “I have all I need, thank you.”

 

“Is that so?” She put down the jug she’d been carrying before resting her hand on the tabletop, cocking her hip becomingly. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”

 

That wording had to be deliberate, _surely_. Thorin raised her eyebrows. “You already are.”

 

The Hobbit lass coloured and looked extremely pleased. “You are far too kind,” she murmured, gazing at Thorin from underneath long lashes. The neck of her dress was not cut indecently, but exposed enough bronzed skin to catch the eye. Thorin was already entertaining thoughts of gold chain and yellow topazes before she caught herself.

 

“I do not offer flattery without merit.” Thorin found this barmaid exceedingly – surprisingly – attractive. There was something about her that Thorin couldn’t put her finger on, something that suggested an iron spine despite the softness of her bearing. And even if Thorin wouldn’t allow herself to actually get involved, she could certainly look her fill.

 

“Are you in Bree for business?” She refilled Thorin’s wine, never once breaking their gazes. There was a bright spark in her hazel eyes that made her look particularly wicked, and Thorin couldn’t help but imagine the unspoken question of her instead being in Bree ‘for pleasure’.

 

“Aye, business.” Of a sort. “Though soon I will return home.”

 

Now the Hobbit’s eyes went to the floor. “You must be missed.”

 

“I miss them as well.” And she really did; it had been five long months since she’d seen a familiar face. It would be good to hear Fíli’ and Kíli’s laughter and chattering, would be good to hold Dís and Frerin close. “My family, that is. Brother and sister, and two nephews; can be right annoying, but distance makes the heart fonder.”

 

“I do not know how that feels,” was the quiet reply. Then she smiled suddenly, “Though I have cousins and cousins-in-law enough that it near as much makes no difference.”

 

“Is that why you chose to work here instead of in the Shire?”

 

A shrug. “I go where the promise of coin takes me. As a… merchant, surely you understand, Mistress Dwarf.”

 

Thorin did. She had herself travelled most of Arda to help her family – and her people – survive.

 

“It helps that I do more than serve drinks and food. I brew and grow them as well.”

 

“Oh?” Her eyebrows crept up her forehead. “Are these lovely specimens yours, then?”

 

“They are.” The Hobbit turned her body to face Thorin fully, bringing the bowl balanced on her hip into closer view. The tomatoes held within were temptingly plump and beautifully orange – almost reminiscent of a sunset, as much as a vegetable could resemble one. “Made a killing during the last garden show in Hobbiton.”

 

“I can only imagine.” Thorin found that she couldn’t just sit idly when such enticement sat within reach – almost pouting when the lass swung away, giggling.

 

“These aren’t for you.”

 

“Whyever not?” Thorin rested her chin on her hand, smirking. “They'll go well with my food.” As much as the Mannish version of stew could be called food; it was far too watery for her tastes, not to mention too many sweet carrots.

 

This made the Hobbit’s amusement grow, and her hazel eyes twinkled. “It's not nice to take things without asking.”

 

“You like people asking nicely, then?” Thorin let the fingers of her free hand curl over the edge of the table. Better that than curling them over the curve of a wide waist – though she was sure that her hand would fit perfectly there.

 

“I do, yes. But there are times when being taken is the best option.” Her lips were wide and full, lifting at the corners into a fiendish smile that could take anyone’s breath away, and Thorin looked on in wonder.

 

Who would’ve thought that she’d find such a gem in the town of Bree?

 

She reined in her ridiculous imagination; it wouldn’t do to entertain these suddenly uncomfortable thoughts, especially when she was to end someone’s life. Best come to terms with the fact that she’d likely never see this Hobbit again, and bury that disappointment deep.

 

She did filch one of those beautiful tomatoes, though. At least she’d be able to give in to one of her temptations.

 

Thorin’s teeth pierced the fragile skin easily and sweet juice burst across her tongue; the taste, though slightly metallic, was mountains better than any tomato she’d eaten before. The flesh almost dissolved on her tongue, seeds so tiny they were near as unnoticeable, and it managed to be refreshing and rich at the same time, calling to mind sunshine in high summer. It was no wonder why this Hobbit lass was so proud of them.

 

She made sure to lick her lips, immeasurably flattered when hazel eyes lingered.

 

“Oi, Miss Underhill!” The moment shattered with the shout; the Hobbit turned her curly-haired head towards the barman, who looked impatient. “More orders to see to here!”

 

“Aye, coming!” She – Underhill, apparently – made sure to meet Thorin’s eye before walking away. That slow smile again curled sensuous lips. “Pleasure,” she said slowly, caressing her consonants, and winked.

 

It most certainly had been a pleasure to meet her – and a pleasure to watch her walk away. The sway of those hips and, lower, the –

 

A shout of alarm broke Thorin’s intense concentration. She winced inwardly when she noted that it had come from Circyn’s direction; she was supposed to have been keeping an eye on him instead of coquetting with a serving girl. And now, unbeknownst to her, the slaver was –

 

Was –

 

“I don’t know what happened! He just – he was talking, he was eating, and then, and then –”

 

Thorin surged to her feet, rushing towards the Man while others surrounding him reared back. Circyn lay slumped over the table surface, his tankard overturned, ale spilled and mingling with the vomit trailing from his mouth. His eyes stared unseeingly, fixed and blank. A tinge of blue had already settled into his features.

 

She found that she could not concentrate on her mark (but he was dead, so it hardly mattered; t’wasn’t like he’d be able to escape now). Her gaze focused instead on a bright flash of orange on Circyn’s plate. Three tomatoes, one of which was bitten into… which seemed a waste, as they had been _excellent_.

 

What was wrong? What variable wasn’t she seeing?

 

Was it the ale? Impossible to tell. More likely his tankard would have been emptier, or spilled onto the floor instead of the table. Poisoned dart? Unlikely. Thorin could see no dart on the bared skin of Circyn’s neck or hands – not to mention if someone had managed to hit only Circyn in the crowded dining floor, they’d have to be impossibly skilled.

 

Food, then? A quick glance at the Man’s plate revealed that it held the same stew Thorin had been not-eating; thin, full of washed-out carrots, very little meat. In fact, the only thing that differed was –

 

 _Tomatoes_.

 

Fury rising in her blood, Thorin whirled around, eyes scanning the crowd of the Prancing Pony. No Hobbit barmaid in sight.

 

Damn! Damn, damn, _damn_ –

 

* * *

 

Thorin kept her hood up when she ducked into the tavern. She chose a table at the corner of the place (flashing a gold coin so as to not be disturbed) and seated herself so she could wait. Meeting with Nori always meant that he would come to her, not the other way around – and he would only approach once he deemed the venue safe and secure.

 

She ordered a meal and a tankard of ale, shooting a smile at the barmaid once she’d put down her hood. Thorin took her time eating; the bread was cold and the cheese was hard, but she’d learned long ago that food was food. So long as there was coin to buy it in the first place, the taste was of no concern.

 

Nori dropped into one of the seats without preamble, casually reaching over to steal a tiny tomato from Thorin’s plate. (She glared. Tomatoes were her favourite. Despite… previous experience.)

 

“Any particular reason you were wishful of my presence?” He smirked, pulling a boot up onto his chair and resting his elbow on that knee. He had a new scar, she noted, and wore it like an award.

 

Thorin loosed a small pouch from her belt and tossed it towards the other Dwarf.

 

Nori made sure to peruse the contents of the pouch – he preferred to deal in gems, and raised his eyebrows at the handful of black seawater pearls Thorin had chosen to give him. They were a rare commodity amongst Dwarves, especially ones that were close to flawless, and it was as much an indicator of how badly Thorin wanted information as if she’d shouted it out loud from the rooftop.

 

Still. At least she knew that Nori’s information was well worth paying for.

 

“Tell me all you know about Sting,” Thorin said softly, interlocking her fingers over the table.

 

He stowed the pouch. “Well. It’s said that she started off as an ordinary burglar…”

 

* * *

 

Months passed wherein contracts were few and far between. Thorin spent the time at home, running the household and entertaining her sister-sons. It was probably worth mentioning that the former was much easier a task than the latter.

 

But it had its benefits.

 

On her hands and knees, Thorin crawled her way along the carpet, squinting around in what she assumed was an ‘evil’ way. She’d draped a red swathe of cloth around her shoulders – her colouring as a dragon – and did her best to pretend she couldn’t hear the giggling in the corner.

 

“I’m starving!” she called, deliberately peering underneath the corner of the blanket farthest away from Fíli and Kíli. “I can smell Dwarf!”

 

“You’ll never catch us!” Fíli roared – as much as a Dwarfling could – and Kíli attempted his own war cry that was drowned out by his own laughter.

 

“I can hear you!” Thorin crept closer and closer, still refusing to look directly at her nephews. Even out of the corner of her eye she could see their outlines against the ‘wall’ of their ‘fort’.

 

Her announcement immediately led to a bout of loud-shushing. Thorin hid her smile, turning her face into her shoulder. She was reminded of her own childhood, when she would drag Frerin and Dís (sometimes their cousins as well) into all sorts of trouble. It was heartening to know that those happy memories could be echoed after all they had gone through.

 

“Oh, no.” Thorin put her head in her hands, resting her elbows on the floor. “My nose has failed me – I have no idea where the Dwarf princes are.” She feigned noisy sobs. “Now I will go hungry, and –”

 

Small, insistent hands pulled hers away from her face; Kíli gazed up at her solemnly. “Don’t cry, dragon-Auntie Thorin.”

 

“Are you a Dwarf prince?”

 

Kíli nodded wordlessly, and then shrieked with laughter when Thorin swooped him into her arms, tickling without any mercy or quarter. Fíli burst out from his hiding place, brandishing his wooden axe Dwalin had made for him. His first blow landed neatly against Thorin’s shoulder – down where there was usually a break in armour between torso and arm. A fine swing. Promising. She allowed another strike, this one bouncing off her collarbone, before turning her own attack onto Fíli.

 

She only let up after they both surrendered (“Y’win! Y’win!”), and found that she was herself breathless with mirth. Thorin flopped onto her back and let Fíli and Kíli pillow their heads on her arms. They three stared up at the ceiling as they caught their breaths; Kíli’s hand fisted in Thorin’s tunic and Fíli had found his axe, tapping the ‘blade’ against his knee thoughtfully.

 

Thorin loved them so much it was sometimes impossible to believe. It was a pity that she spent so much time away from home, she reflected, even if it was necessary. Yes. Necessary to take the lives of other beings. Necessary to be paid in exchange. Necessary to jeopardise her life each time. Necessary.

 

Closing her eyes, Thorin sent a prayer to Mahal that her sister-sons would never follow in her footsteps.

 

_Please. Keep careful watch over them… especially when I no longer can._

 

* * *

 

The rain was miserable.

 

Thorin’s coat kept out the worst of it, but did not change the fact that she was cold and wet. The sooner she reached her (hopefully bone-dry) destination, the better. The muck of the path sucked at her boots as she squelched through, making every step seem more difficult than the last.

 

Durin’s beard, she hated ponies, but she wished for one right now.

 

There was a reason why she was out in this terrible weather. There had to be a reason. Thorin just couldn’t fathom what it could be – especially when the point of her nose was distractingly cold, almost icy. She cupped her hand over her mouth and nose, breathing into it to try to get warmth into her face.

 

There was a fervent chant in the back of her mind, hope that she was indeed on the right road. The directions given to her had been extremely specific, but Thorin had an ability to go off course. ‘Find the east road and keep on it’ were not instructions that were difficult to follow, but if she’d chosen the wrong road in the first place, well, that would potentially be a problem.

 

Bad enough there was no trace of the sun to enable her to get her bearings. It would be useful to also know how much time had passed since she’d –

 

Thorin’s hand went to the hilt of her sword. Over the sound of the rain and the thunder she had heard another set of footsteps. Only one set. She adjusted the strap of her pack so she’d be able to drop it if necessary – better it be muddy than hinder her in an attack – and clenched her teeth tightly. Was it someone that wanted to kill her, or just a simple bandit?

 

She’d find out soon, in any case. The footsteps were closer than before, and _damn_ this rain for stinging her eyes –

 

“I didn’t think to find you on this road.”

 

Thorin stopped in the middle of the path. That voice… She sighed, frown wrinkling her forehead. “Tharkûn.”

 

“Thorin.” Clever eyes twinkled at her underneath a wide-brimmed hat. Tharkûn leaned on his staff, his grey clothes turned almost black with the rain. “And where are you headed on this… wet day?”

 

“I suspect you already know.” Thorin resumed her walking, sure that the Wizard would follow. “You were aware of Azog’ and Bolg’s cause of death.”

 

“You were the best option in putting an end to that rabble.” He shrugged a shoulder carelessly. “Their deaths were necessary. As is your next contract.”

 

She glared up at him, suspicion flitting through her mind. “You know something.” Well, of _course_ he knew something. Meetings with Tharkûn did not occur by chance. He revealed himself only when he deemed it essential.

 

“I know many things,” he agreed, strides slow so she could still keep up with him. “Including the fact that it’s been many decades since you’ve ventured this far East.”

 

Thorin chose not to respond. The last time she’d been here this road had not existed; all was ash and rock, and she had been chasing the rumour of her father’s being there. It had been a fruitless journey, full of despair and hopelessness… but Thorin still refused to believe that Thráin was dead.

 

But that was neither here nor there. She’d been summoned with the promise of a contract that would ‘pay extremely well’. One could only hope that this summons meant she would not have to deal with certain Hobbits stealing her thunder.

 

“If I may ask, Thorin, is there a reason why you work alone?”

 

“Because I do.” What a stupid question; how exactly would two or more people kill a single target by joining forces? It was hard enough slinking around undetected when it was her on her own (more often than not she did not remain unnoticed and had to make hasty escapes). “Why?”

 

“It would make your life easier.”

 

Thorin snorted, pulling the hood of her cloak lower over her face. “Or harder, when my ‘partner’ decides to abscond and claim the reward for themselves.” It wouldn’t be her first taste of betrayal.

 

Tharkûn chuckled. “As cautious as your father was.”

 

Her heart seized in her chest. “So it’s true. You did know him.”

 

“Of course.” He sounded surprised. “I didn’t know you were unaware of our friendship.”

 

“We figured his warning about you as a general one.” At the grumbling this elicited, Thorin managed a small smirk. “‘Never meddle in the affairs of Wizards, and do your best to ensure they do not meddle in yours.’”

 

Shaking his head, Tharkûn muttered under his breath – probably unkind things about Thorin and her kin. She didn’t bother trying to decipher it. The rain was finally starting to let up; it was drizzling just heavily enough to be annoying and the air was humid. Why hadn’t she reached her destination yet?

 

Just as soon as the thought coalesced in her head, the silhouette of the tavern seemed to loom out of the almost-darkness. The dripping sign by the door proclaimed it the ‘Red Dragon’. Good.

 

“This is where we part ways,” Tharkûn said gravely.

 

Thorin didn’t bother asking how he knew this was her destination. In a rare moment of politeness, she asked, “Will you join me for a meal at least, before you continue on?”

 

“I cannot tarry. There is business I must see to.” He slipped his hand past the folds of his cloak, probably reaching for an inner pocket. “And before that, I will pass you this.”

 

Jaw loosing, Thorin pushed the hood off her head just to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. But no, she’d seen correctly. In Tharkûn’s steady hand he held out a key; one she’d not seen since she was a Dwarfling.

 

She’d unwittingly reached out; her hand was suspended between them. “How came you by this?”

 

“It was given to me by your father. By Thráin.”

 

Thorin took the key reverently, eyes wide with disbelief. She’d thought it lost, like most of their family’s belongings. She traced the sharp corners with a forefinger. This was impossible.

 

“You will need this. I’m sure of it.”

 

She hardly registered Tharkûn’s words. They were muted in her ears. It took a gentle tap of his staff against the side of her boot for her to break from her thoughts; she looked up into a kindly expression.

 

He carefully gripped her shoulder and smiled encouragingly. “Try to remember that you are not alone.”

 

Thorin managed a nod, eyes dropping back to the key. When she looked up again, mere moments later, the rain had stopped and she could see why there’d been a loss of pressure on her shoulder. Tharkûn had gone.

 

Leaving her – ironically – alone.

 

* * *

 

Thorin had barely settled into her paid-for room when there came a tapping on the wooden window shutters. Feeling the key like a brand against her skin, she hurried across and threw the window open so that the Raven could fly in.

 

It settled on the headboard of the bed, considering her beadily.

 

Thorin kicked the blanket she’d thrown near the door, tucking it in the space between the bottom of it and the floor. Not a guarantee that she’d not be overheard, but it was better than nothing. “What work do you have for me?”

 

“ _In four days hence, in the town of Dale, your services will be needed._ ” The bird stretched out one wing, fixing a few bent feathers. “ _Find your way into the keep and go to the highest room. Kill the lord there in whatever way best suits you._ ”

 

Straightforward enough. “Is there a name? Or a description?”

 

“ _Both. He wears silver buttons and jewels in his ears. No hair. Scar on his neck down to his chest. Gold eyes._ ”

 

Thorin… frowned. Felt foreboding. “Name?” she prompted.

 

The Raven settled its wings. “ _Smaug_ ,” it answered.

 

She almost reeled from the shock; as it was Thorin leaned back against the solidity of the door and hoped her feet would hold her. She’d not heard that name in a long time – the name of the Man that had killed her grandmother and _destroyed_ her family. How odd that her profession as assassin – borne from poverty cause by Smaug himself – would now enable her to kill him.

 

The Raven made a sound that, if it hadn’t been a bird, would’ve been termed a cough. “ _Do you accept this contract_?”

 

Yes, she would accept. She’d be bloody mad not to. She sent the Raven back with her curt response, and felt a grim sort of determination settle into her bones. Yes, she would see this through or die trying – and it was with the latter in mind that Thorin made sure to pen a letter to her siblings. They deserved to know what could transpire; she’d leave the message with the innkeeper to send on.

 

The visit she received the next day, just stepping out of the tavern, was entirely unexpected.

 

“You are making a mistake.”

 

Thorin crossed her arms over her chest, glad that she was far from Ered Luin. She did not want the risk of Sting being anywhere near her family – they would have to leave Ered Luin. Soon as she’d put this contract behind her, and Smaug in the ground – then they would leave. (Then they _could_ leave.)

 

She glared down at Sting. (Underhill, if that even was her name.) “A mistake? I do not see it.”

 

“That is because you are blind to all beyond your nose!” The Hobbit looked about as dangerous as a mewling kitten, even if her figure was as fetching as first they ‘met’. “You cannot kill Smaug.”

 

“I will do as I like. Your permission means nothing.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “My permission is not the issue here; your personal vendetta has compromised you and will get you killed!”

 

“I find it hard to believe that you would care about such a thing,” Thorin sneered, “given that you tried to poison me in Bree.”

 

“Please. If I wanted to poison you, you’d be dead.” She stood with arms akimbo and Thorin noticed (while noticing the curve of the Hobbit’s waist) a tiny sword – dagger? – hanging from her belt. “Moreover, _you_ were the one who snatched up a tomato without asking. If anything, you poisoned yourself.” Her frown of disapproval melted into one of puzzlement. “Yet stand before me.”

 

“Dwarves are more hardy than you will ever know.” Thorin pushed aside her smug superiority, focusing on what Sting had said earlier. “My reasons for accepting this contract are my own.”

 

“Your reasons will, as I said, get you killed!”

 

Thorin drew in a breath to argue, then stopped herself. Why would the Hobbit even care if she died? Surely that would just mean less competition – besides which, Sting seemed quite able to snatch up Thorin’s contracts from right under her nose (an acknowledgement that cause no small amount of damage to the Dwarf’s pride). “What will you gain from dissuading me? I did not think your kind coveted riches.”

 

“We do not. Not the sort _your_ kind go mad over.” (Probably-Not)-Underhill wrinkled her nose. “Please, you must listen to me. Going alone to Dale will mean going to your death.”

 

“Alone?” She snorted. “Are you offering to accompany me, then? As a bodyguard?”

 

“We could work _together_ ,” Sting said, ignoring Thorin’s snark. “I don’t care for the pay; you can take it all so long as you let me help.”

 

A thought slipped through her mind like a droplet of water down a stalactite, and the furrow between Thorin’s brows deepened. “Why – _how_ do you know I have a personal interest in this contract?” She’d have expected knowledge of her family’s past to be known amongst Dwarves – not in anyone of another race.

 

“I was informed.”

 

“And you won’t give me the identity of your informant.”

 

Sting smiled thinly. “So you are capable of intelligence.”

 

Thorin let this insult slide, turning away. “And this is why we cannot, as you say, ‘work together’. I cannot trust you.”

 

“Don’t do this, Dwarf!” the Hobbit called to Thorin’s retreating back. “You’ll put more than yourself in danger!”

 

She marched steadily on. It would take a day to get to Dale, if she hurried, and she’d be able to use the extra time to scout the keep; plan the best entrance and exit strategies. Perhaps there would be guards to bribe, so she’d have to listen to local gossip to see if that was an option –

 

“Mark me, Oakenshield, you’ll never get inside that keep on your own!”

 

Thorin rather doubted that. Not when she now had a good idea what the key she’d been given – her father’s key – was for. She smiled grimly, and kept going, and hoped that she’d never see Sting again.

 

No, she didn’t quite believe it either.

 

* * *

 

Finding the door had been a lot easier than Thorin had anticipated. It seemed to almost be fate to overhear a guard mentioning to her sweetheart the fact that there was a door leading from the sewers into the keep that seemed to be locked without a key.

 

Sewers it was, then.

 

There was only one guard who’d had the misfortune of sewer duty; Thorin killed him as he dozed and let his body slip into the murky water below. She loosed the key from the thong around her neck but… hesitated. She knew that the possibility of this plan working relied on chance and coincidence, and she knew that if this failed she would turn to her secondary plan.

 

Either way, she was about to kill the _creature_ that had done so much wrong to her family.

 

The key slid into the keyhole, and turned in a surprisingly soundless fashion. Thorin pushed the door open and stepped forwards into darkness and dust. There was no guard on this side of the door, for which Thorin felt thankful.

 

Unfortunately for her, that did not mean that there were not guards at other posts.

 

She risked another peek around the corner. Who used _Trolls_ as guards? They were unobservant at worst and stupid at best; their strength and size was enough to dissuade most intruders, but the fact remained that the three of them were discussing how bogeys changed the taste of their dinner.

 

Actually, considering their raptness on their food, perhaps Thorin could try to sneak past –

 

“‘Ere – who goes there?”

 

There was a huge sneeze, and Thorin’s hand went to her axe handle. She cursed. How had they even seen her? Only one out of three of them was even sitting facing her direction, and that one was apparently the cook, going by the way it’d been glaring into the cooking pot.

 

“Come out! We can smell you!”

 

Mayhap using the sewers as an entrance had been a bad idea; even so, Thorin frowned and sniffed discreetly at her clothes. She didn’t think that she stank. But that mattered not – they had found her out, and she would face them. Even if killing three Trolls sounded like too big a challenge even to her. Thorin tensed her shoulders –

 

“You must be _joking_. I’m nowhere as bad as the stench in here.” That voice did not at all belong to a Troll… and was suspiciously familiar. “I’m not sure which is worse; you three or whatever it is in that pot.”

 

“You what?” It should have been impossible to hear the Troll’s frown, but even though it wasn’t facing Thorin, she could see its ugly face creased in confusion.

 

She was not too caught up in this fact, though. She’d recognised the voice and it belonged to Sting; for some inexplicable reason, the Hobbit was in the keep and speaking with the Trolls. Either she was working for Smaug (which might explain her insistence that Thorin not go to Dale… or, no, it made everything more confusing) and was part of his retinue, or – or –

 

“Who’s callin’ my soup stenchy?” Thorin guessed that that was the cook. (Troll 1, for reference.)

 

“ _Me_ ,” Sting said pointedly, irreverently. “Are your ears as bad as your nose?”

 

Troll 2 sneezed again, then came the sound of an enormous nose being blown into (hopefully) some form of handkerchief. “Wha’ is it?”

 

“Could be a ferret,” said Troll 3.

 

“ _Ferret_?” In spite of the situation, Thorin found herself grinning at the indignant fury in Sting’s tone. “How dare – I’m not a _ferret_. I’m a burglar – Hobbit.”

 

“Burglarobbit?” Back to Troll 1. “Wot’s that then?”

 

“That’s me.” Just _what_ was Sting trying to do? Antagonising the Trolls for sport? Was she aware of some weakness they had? Or was it simply that she knew that Thorin was present, and was going to reveal her hiding place in a few seconds –

 

“I don’t believe you,” sneered Troll 3. “You’re lyin’ to us.”

 

“I am not lying,” Sting said, sounding genuinely insulted. “It’s not as if I’m playing distraction to you three just so a certain Dwarf can sneak past and go on her merry way to kill your master.”

 

A series of question marks stampeded through Thorin’s mind. Just –

 

 _What_?

 

“Wha’?” Troll 2 asked.

 

Thorin tuned out the conversation; she’d slid down the wall into a seated position, and now clutched at her forehead as her thoughts raced. How could it be that the Hobbit wanted to _help_ instead of hinder? How could that be possible?

 

Prior to their meeting, Sting had been a thorn in Thorin’s side, constantly snatching contracts from under her not-inconsiderable nose. Looking back on their first face-to-face encounter, Thorin now saw that Sting had been openly, _smugly_ hinting at her identity. (She took a second to wonder if their coquetry had been false on Sting’s part – then dismissed the thought as entirely ridiculous.)

 

Days ago the Hobbit had tried to dissuade Thorin from entering this very keep. Well, perhaps not dissuade, come to think of it… She’d taken pains to insist that Thorin would not have been able to kill Smaug on her own – a theory that had become fact, considering that she was cowering from Trolls and apparently needed a Hobbit to distract them. And Sting hadn’t been the only one to suggest a partnership –

 

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. Tharkûn. He must have been Sting’s informant. No one else would have had information on Thorin’s life and shared it willy-nilly. But that still begged the question of _why_ they both seemed to be in collusion with each other, and _why_ they wanted to help (questionable, there) Thorin.

 

A loud growl interrupted her thoughts and Thorin rose to her feet. Right. The Trolls were still there and Sting was still with them. Although she seemed to have things in control –

 

“Argh! She kicked me!”

 

“Grab her!”

 

“She’s too _fast_!”

 

Perhaps ‘in control’ was a wrong assumption. Thorin unsheathed her sword. No matter what was thought of her, she would not let another person – rival or not – face Trolls alone. It was not her nature.

 

She didn’t waste time on demands or war cries. Thorin ran into the room with _Deathless_ in one hand and _Sankhursh_ in the other, eyes set on the nearest Troll.

 

“Oakenshield – you _idiot_!”

 

Considering that she was risking her life to save Sting’s, insulting her was unfair. Thorin didn’t waste words on the Hobbit, sinking the blade of her axe into tough hide and listening to the Troll squeal.

 

“Oi! Wha’s that now?”

 

“It’s a _Dwarf_!” That sounded like Troll 1; a particularly ugly specimen if ever Thorin saw one – and yes, it did have a giant ladle in hand. “Just like the furgleburobbit said.”

 

“Th’ same one?” asked Troll 3. “Can’t be; she wasn’ half lyin’ to us earlier –”

 

Apparently tired of dealing with such idiocy, Sting unsheathed her sword.

 

What followed was a surprisingly long fight, considering that they were a Dwarf and a Hobbit against three Trolls. Thorin supposed it helped that she was experienced in close combat, and that Sting was incredibly quick on her feet. Even so, Trolls were hard to injure, and Thorin found herself wishing that she had some of her kin to fight beside; a handful of Dwarves and they’d have defeated the Trolls almost instantly, no problem.

 

“Halt!”

 

Thorin obeyed, out of pure instinct – but then her brain caught up with what she was seeing and – and –

 

The tallest of the three Trolls sneered at her. “Lay down your arms,” it growled, swallowing half its words. “Or we’ll rip hers off!”

 

Knowing that she only had seconds to act, Thorin considered the angle and tried to calculate if it was possible to throw her sword to lop off one of the Troll’s hands – and if she’d be able to do so without the other Troll just… eating Sting. But as she looked, she noted the Hobbit’s expression, noted that she looked almost _resigned_.

 

Resigned to death, or resigned to Thorin’s uncaring?

 

Keeping her eyes locked with hazel ones, she let _Deathless_ clang onto the floor ( _Sankhursh_ had been knocked out of her grip earlier). The pure shock on Sting’s face was almost worth the indignity of being trussed up and thrown into the dungeon.

 

Almost.

 

* * *

 

“For someone who was so insistent on taking this contract, you were quick enough to throw away all your chances.”

 

Thorin didn’t look up, didn’t look towards Sting. “I am not one to throw away a life.”

 

The Hobbit snorted. “An irony, considering your – our – line of work.”

 

She didn’t reply. There was no real point. For all that Sting was annoying – and yet _still_ attractive – she was right. All chances Thorin had had in killing Smaug were now scuppered. More than that, there was no doubt that she would be executed and although Dís and Frerin were more than capable of supporting themselves and the lads, Thorin _hated_ that she’d be the cause of yet more pain.

 

Surely their family had had to deal with enough death.

 

“Oakenshield?”

 

Thorin grunted.

 

“If I ask you a question, will you answer it?”

 

She grunted again.

 

Sting sighed. Still determinedly not looking in her direction, Thorin heard rather than saw her shift; the chains around her wrists clanked gently. “If we’d happened to meet by chance in Bree, instead of in the middle of a job, then… then would we still have had a similar conversation as we’d had that day?”

 

Thorin didn’t lift her gaze from the poorly made shackles around her own wrists. “If you are asking what I think you’re asking –”

 

“I am.”

 

“– then yes. I do have feelings for you. It’s too bad they’re moot.” Even the mention of what could have been sent a pang through Thorin’s chest. There was no telling if she and Sting would have had a long lasting relationship, but as it stood she was rather partial to the image of the Hobbit under – and over – her.

 

But as mentioned previously, there was the small issue of their imminent deaths.

 

Again came the low clank of chains, accompanied by the rustle of cloth and soft footfalls. Thorin was fairly impressed that Sting had managed to get to her feet with her hands bound. She herself did not want to test her balance and end up on her face or – more likely – end up with her face bashed against the bars of their cell. (These were unfortunately not as poorly made as their bindings.)

 

She obligingly met hazel eyes when Sting kneeled beside her on the clammy stone floor.

 

“I do not want to be your enemy.”

 

Thorin, who’d been thinking of diamond teardrops to string on a chain around the Hobbit’s waist, took a moment before replying. “I don’t consider you one.” If she was entirely truthful, she’d have admitted that she never had thought of Sting as an enemy. “You are entirely exasperating and dreadfully desirable – and even if you’d not helped me today, I’d still rather call you… friend.”

 

Friend was safer. Not that Sting seemed to want to respect safety. She brought her hands to Thorin’s face, stroking her jaw with a touch as light as a butterfly’s wings. “Kiss me.”

 

Thorin blinked, even as she moved so that slender fingers were more firmly pressed against her beard. “Very forward of you, Mistress Sting.”

 

The Hobbit smiled, a dusting of pink like rose quartz spreading across her cheeks, and Thorin thought of jewelled pins to put in that crown of braids. “My name,” she whispered, brushing her nose against the tip of Thorin’s, “is Bilbo.”

 

 _Bilbo_ , Thorin thought wonderingly, and stretched up to kiss her.

 

She thought the kiss would be gentle, and while Sting – _Bilbo_ – indeed did meet the press of Thorin’s lip tenderly, there was an undercurrent of certainty and confidence that Thorin hadn’t expected. Thorin gave up all pretence of being in control, and gladly, submitting to the ministrations of the Hobbit that had been a source of much inner (and outer) chaos.

 

Parting her lips for Bilbo’s questing tongue, Thorin moaned softly and felt its echo rather than hear it. She was smiling before she knew it; heady was the knowledge that she was finally on equal footing with this beautiful, clever, _deadly_ Hobbit.

 

They separated for air for the briefest of moments. Past the rushing in her ears (akin to working the giant forge bellows in a Dwarf-dwelt mountain), Thorin noted that Bilbo looked as winded as she felt. How powerful it was to be the source of the ruby-red of Bilbo’s cheeks and the deep breaths she sucked in through her mouth. Thorin only wished that she was free to hold Bilbo close with one arm and bury the fingers of her other hand into the loose curls as Bilbo’s neck – but contented herself with leaning forward again.

 

If this was to be her last few hours alive, then she was glad to have the taste of the Hobbit on her lips. 

 

Bilbo had other plans. Her full lips glided across Thorin’s cheeks and stopped at the curve of her ear. Her teeth closed down gently and made the Dwarf shudder, a coil of lust tightening low in her belly. 

 

Then she spoke, and broke the lazy, hazy spell.

 

“Smaug will be here soon.”

 

Abruptly thrown back into the present, Thorin pulled back with a mighty frown. “I know. He will not resist a chance to gloat.” And he would bring up memories from both their pasts that would paralyse her with anger –

 

“He will come right up to the bars to bait you.”

 

Thorin made a _tch_ sound with her tongue, impatient. “I am aware of this!” She was aware that she would be killed, so soon after discovering that her feelings towards Sting – towards Bilbo were returned. She only wanted to preserve her silly fantasy for a little longer. “And if we go by your methods, as I’m sure we will, we shall both be calm and rational when Smaug comes. We’ll let him crow and do nothing.”

 

“No,” Bilbo said mildly. “We’ll strike.”

 

Thorin frowned. “And how will we do that?” Had Bilbo forgotten that they were both weaponless and bound, separated from ‘visitors’ by iron bars?

 

The smile directed at her was brighter than any jewel Thorin had ever seen – possibly every jewel in Middle-Earth – and piqued her curiosity. Bilbo leaned close to Thorin, crowding forward until she was almost in Thorin’s lap, and whispered with mischief in her voice, “There’s a knife in my hair.”

 

Thorin kissed her again.


End file.
